DÉJÀ VU

Mickey left the tavern a bit later with mixed feelings. It had been so long since he'd felt free to have an exchange like that with another girl that he'd forgotten what a rush it is. He'd been such a devoted boyfriend for so long...

He prayed he'd be able to get a room at the Jeffries House (he did, though he did not get room 18), even though he knew that making any plans with Martha would be wrong. He knew because he felt guilty about it. But he was so tired of chasing after Rose... so he made a deal with himself. He could see Martha again for one hour. Coffee. That's it. No talk of dancing, alcohol or going to anyone's flat or room. Coffee. The platonic beverage.

So when the call came the following day, why had he been so nervous talking to Martha? They had agreed to meet for the platonic beverage, but why had he bought new cologne for himself?

Martha had much the same feelings. Mickey was involved with someone, but she could see that he needed a friend. And that's all she intended to be: a friend. Besides, she knew she absolutely couldn't survive going after another guy who was in love with someone else. That would be the thing that would finally her into a convent if she went down that road again. So, she would settle for being Mickey's coffee partner for the whatever time he was in London.

So when she finally decided to call, why had she picked up the phone three times, only to chicken out? And now that their non-date was nigh, why had she changed her clothes four times and dipped into her "good" makeup stash?

The coffee house was a zoo. Saturday night madness made coffee-getting difficult, and conversation impossible. Martha and Mickey stood in line without really speaking to each other, and non-verbally agreed to leave the joint with their lattès in-hand. Once outside, they each breathed an exaggerated sigh and began to laugh.

"Did you see that? It was like Bedlam in there!" Mickey exclaimed.

"No, Bedlam is nothing like that," she corrected before she could stop herself. "They've got people in dirty cages and jailers whipping them..."

She looked at Mickey, who was staring at her with amusement. "Spend a lot of time in the middle ages, do you?" he asked.

"Oh," she said, her face turning hot. "Just every now and then when the weather's a bit nasty here."

Luckily, he didn't think she was a complete nitwit, he didn't push further, and the two of them laughed again.

"So, where would you like to go?" he asked.

"I'm happy just wandering," she answered. "We can just have a stroll and a chat."

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

But they didn't say anything for a long time. They just walked and sipped, occasionally making eye-contact and smiling. Martha wanted to take his arm, but she thought that sort of behaviour would be considered too date-like, so she refrained. A curiosity occurred to her.

"So, you're not new in town," she told him. "I can tell by your accent. But last time, you said that you and your girlfriend live someplace else."

"Oh, erm, yeah," he said, choking a bit. "I grew up here, lived in the Powell Estates for a few years. Now we live in... Banbury."

"Banbury?"

"Yes," he fumbled. "Work brought us there."

"Are you in steel?" she asked.

"Erm, no, I mean... my girlfriend's work. She's in retail. Got a promotion and they moved her up there."

"And of course you followed," Martha said a bit teasingly, bumping her shoulder against his arm.

"Of course," he agreed, feeling a bit fevered. Lying on-the-fly to a complete stranger was one thing, but lying to someone he actually liked felt awful.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"What do you do?" she repeated. "For a living, I mean."

"Me?" he asked, another feverish wave sweeping over him. "Oh, I'm a computer guy."

"Nice," she said. "Always a demand for that. Is that why you're in London?"

"Yeah," he told her. "Some, er, interference in the, er, network system of Longworth's Banks. They're contracted with my company, so they sent me down to trouble-shoot."

"Interference? What, like a virus?"

"Either that or aliens," Mickey answered, immediately wishing he hadn't.

But she thought it was cute, so they both laughed.

"So I know what you do, doctor Jones," he began, wanting to change the subject.

She cut him off. "Tut! Nearly doctor Jones!"

"Sorry," he said. "Nearly doctor Jones. Anyway, I know your line of work, or line of occupying your time, anyway. So tell me about this bloke."

She was surprised. "What the one I left eight days ago?"

"Yeah, him," he said. "I mean I know he was smitten with this other bird instead of you, which automatically tells me he's completely barmy, but what else is there about him?"

"What do you want to know?" she asked, uneasy. Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had been a moron to think that she could just go back to being anonymous Martha Jones, medical student and private citizen. She know speculated that it was possible that Mickey in fact knew exactly who she was and all of her associations. He could be a spy from any organisation, an envoy from any planet. He could be an assassin trying to gather information on the Doctor, or even on Martha herself.

Or perhaps not, but suddenly she didn't trust Mickey Smith completely. She made up her mind simply to tread lightly.

"I don't know. Let's start with his name," Mickey suggested.

She looked at him, searching. Then she said, "John."

"Okay, and what does John look like?"

She didn't want to give away too much. Many organizations had images of the Doctor on file. If they were looking for confirmation, she was not about to give it to them. She answered subjectively, at the risk of sounding maudlin. "Oh, he's handsome. Brown eyes that seem to search the soul, and a really sexy scowl. And he looks hot in a suit!"

"Really? What does he do for a living?"

Reluctantly, she answered, "He's a doctor."

"Of course he is," Mickey commented expressionlessly. He caught himself, and added, "I mean, you spend all your time in a hospital. Of course you'd fall for a doctor. But... does that mean that you have to see him every day?"

"No, no," she assured him. "He isn't a doctor at our hospital. He works someplace else, thank heaven."

"He from around here?" Mickey wanted to know.

"No," she told him. "He's from... far away."

"What, like New Zealand?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Kind of like that."

She was growing weary of this. These questions he was asking were dangerous. The intelligence she was giving him could collapse universes. It was time to find out a bit more about Mickey, if that was his real name.

"But what about your girl? What's she like?" she asked, feigning whimsy.

"Well, she too is rather comely," he answered with a crooked smile. "Sexy full lips. Beautiful eyes, beautiful smile. And blonde."

Now it was Martha's turn to sulk. "Of course she is."

"Sorry?"

"No, no," she covered. "Ignore me. What else?"

"Well, I already said she's in retail," he told her, thinking of what else to say. "She's really interested in history."

"Really? What sorts of history?"

"Oh, like, she's into Charles Dickens' life, Queen Victoria, King Louis XV."

"King Louis XV?" Martha asked.

"Yeah, you know. Madame de Pompadour, Versailles, all that."

"Okay, interesting," Martha commented.

Somewhere nearby, they heard thunder.

"Yeah," Mickey said, almost apologetically. "It's not my bag, but that bloke she was with, remember him? He got her into all that stuff."

They could hear rain now, but it had not yet reached them. They turned a corner, and saw something peculiar. It seemed to be raining across the street, as though a barrier had been drawn along the curb, and the weather was not allowed to cross over.

"Hm, that's strange," Martha said.

"Yeah, like there's a glass pane there or something."

"So what's her name?" Martha asked, suddenly forgetting the rain, determined to make Mickey reciprocate with exactly as much information as she had given him.

"Rose."

Martha stopped dead, as did her breathing. It was like someone had hit her hard in the chest with a cricket bat and knocked the wind out of her. It was several seconds before Mickey realised she was no longer beside him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning around.

"What did you just say?" she demanded, her eyes darkening.

"You asked me my girlfriend's name, and I told you. It's Rose."

"That's impossible."

Mickey was nonplussed. "What do you mean it's impossible? It's a perfectly fine name. What's so impossible about it?"

This was too much of a coincidence. A handsome, charming man comes into her life asking about the Judoon experience, then claiming to have the exact same story of heartbreak as she had. He relates to her, comforts her, flatters her, takes her out for coffee, then he starts asking about the Doctor... and now the girl who's broken his heart is Rose? Oh, what she wouldn't give for a weapon right now.

Martha took three steps backwards and pointed her finger authoritatively at Mickey. Her voice quavered as she began to speak loudly, "Look, I don't know who you are, but just leave me alone!"

"What?"

"Stay away from me! I'm not telling you anything else, do you understand?"

"Yes," Mickey said, puzzled. "Martha, what is wrong with you?"

"No more information until you tell me who you are."

"You know who I am. I'm Mickey Smith."

"No," she insisted. "I want the truth."

He sighed, knowing he'd been caught in a lie.

"All right. My name really is Mickey Smith, and I really am from London. But really, I still live in London and so does Rose. I made up the bit about Banbury. I'm not really a computer trouble-shooter. I made that up too."

Martha crossed her arms. "You're going to stick with that Rose thing, then?"

"What Rose thing? Martha, I'm very confused."

They both heard a deafening clap of thunder, and this time the lightning was right over their heads. A storm seemed to be just on top of them.

And then they both looked across the street, and seemed to see it at the same time. It was raining upwards.

"Erm, listen, Martha," Mickey said, suddenly twitchy. "You know where I'm staying, and I'd like to continue this conversation later, but I've suddenly remembered... I've left the iron on. Call me later! Really!"

Fine, go, Mickey Smith. Go do your worst. I have recourse now, she thought, patting the brand-new mobile phone in her pocket.

"Whatever," she said to him. "I have to make a phone call anyway."